


And You Wish (That You Could Just Embrace It)

by its_a_good_song



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternative Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Herb's Electronics Verse, M/M, just a truly tremendous amount of nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_a_good_song/pseuds/its_a_good_song
Summary: They’re selling cookies in the shape of Stanley Cups, is the first thing Sid notices as he walks in.The second is that they are very clearly staffed by Preds fans.An homage to McSpot's 'Herb's Electronics' Verse, wherein Tyler is an Assistant Athletic Trainer for the Stars, Sid is in the middle of a Cup run, and everyone else just wants to do their jobs.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Tyler Seguin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 153





	And You Wish (That You Could Just Embrace It)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [McSpot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSpot/pseuds/McSpot). Log in to view. 



> I've been plonking away at this fic ever since I first read 'Herb's Electronics' in early 2019, which goes to show how much I absolutely cannot commit to finishing projects.
> 
> The Venn diagram of “things in my life” and “things that relate to hockey” boil down to: a vague sense of how media crews work, that conferences are an inescapable part of most professions, and that I’m fucking tender as shit for Sidney Crosby. Everything else is just me rubbing my grubby little theatre kid hands on whatever I can.
> 
> Takes place in a world where the Listerine argument happens but the Game 5 Incident doesn’t, nor do they visit That President, because this is my sandpit now and I reserve the right to mold real events to my fictional whims.
> 
> This is in no way a canonical part of ‘Herb’s Electronics’. In fact, since McSpot likes neither the Pens nor the Stars, I’m gunna go out on a limb here and say that this is so actively NOT canon that it could be classified as a crime. However: I had fun.
> 
> Non-beta'd. Title from a song a friend wrote for a play that I wrote. Please go into this with that level of self-indulgence in mind.
> 
> If you found this by Googling yourself, then that's on you. You know what this is.

They’re selling cookies in the shape of Stanley Cups, is the first thing Sid notices as he walks in.

The second is that they are very clearly staffed by Preds fans.

Gold and navy bunting hangs wall to wall, a singular “Go Predators!” flag pinned to the coffee machine. Along with the Cup cookies they’re also selling sugar cookies with Preds coloured icing and muffins with little gold and navy ribbons tied around them. Apropos of nothing else, they’re also selling smiling whale cookies. The barista behind the counter is tall and serious looking, with dark hair and an intense face. When Sid focuses enough to look at his name tag he sees that his name is, apparently, SCarey.

Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool.

Sid’s definitely second guessing his choice to come here mid-Playoffs.

However, ‘Herb’s Electronics’ also came with the intense and glowing praise of Roman from all the way back in January. _“The food would blow your mind.”_ Roman had said, smiling. _“Even though they’ll definitely care that you’re a Penguin.”_ And then they’d dropped the puck and Sid couldn’t ask if that had been a serious recommendation or if Roman was pranking him by sending him to an electronics store for coffee.

So.

Sid really hopes the food is worth it.

“Hi.” Sid says as he walks up to the counter. SCarey looks up at him from where he’s cleaning a mug, and if he feels anything towards Sid he hides it so expertly that Sid would almost think he had no idea who he was at all.

“How can I help you?” SCarey asks, perfectly neutral.

“I’ll get a…” Sid glances up at the menu, only getting distracted by the sign saying ‘NOTHING WITH FRAPP!!!’ for a split second. “Just a regular latte and a cookie, thanks.”

“Which kind?” SCarey asks, his eyes flicking briefly to the rack of Cups. Sid’s skin itches a little just thinking about touching them.

“The whale one.” Sid says. “Please.”

SCarey raises an eyebrow, but it’s not condescending or dismissive. It feels more like he knows that Sid knows he’s in on the joke.

Sid pays and SCarey starts making Sid’s coffee with a precision that Sid can admire. He feels a little awkward standing silently in front of the counter while SCarey works, so he steps to the side and looks at all the other baked goods in the display while he waits.

(He had thought, maybe stupidly, that when Roman had said they sold _food_ he’d meant _meals_. Roman had a notorious sweet tooth and an addiction to pastries, so Sid’s not really sure why he expected anything different.)

The door opens behind him and a new customer walks in, bringing a gust of vaguely cool air along with him. (Sid will admit, if he has to admit anything negative, that playing through most of Spring always leaves him feeling overheated and muggy in a way he’s still not at all used to.)

“Whew!” The new patron exclaims, a loud and gusting noise. “Hockey fans, eh?”

So, Canadian, then.

SCarey aside, Sid’s got a good track record of not getting recognised so far, so he huddles a little more into his hoodie and keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the display.

“Go Preds.” SCarey deadpans, completely blank.

“Hell yeah, man.” The guy comes all the way up to the counter and Sid can see him in his periphery. The guy’s in skinny jeans and a white henley that barely hides double sleeve tattoos, and when he tosses his head back to get his hair out of his eyes it looks like it should be happening in slow motion.

He’s disgustingly hot, is Sid’s point. He makes direct eye-contact with a whale cookie and refuses to think about it.

“What can I get you?” SCarey asks.

“Wait.” The guy steps closer to the counter. SCarey raises an eyebrow. “Dude, sorry if this is inappropriate, but you’re Carey Price, right?” The guy asks. “You used to work for the Habs?”

If Sid were anyone else, he maybe wouldn’t have noticed that SCarey (Carey, which, yeah, maybe Sid should’ve cottoned on to that sooner) seemed to freeze at the mention of the Habs, nearly dropping Sid’s coffee, but he does. He’s radiating fight or flight. Sid straightens up just in case he has to… step in? Tell the guy to back off? Sid doesn’t know, but he does know he’ll try.

(The guy is way hotter when you look at him directly, which is very unfortunate for Sid, but he ignores it because he’s trying to help.)

“Why do you want to know.” Carey says. It’s not a question.

“Jeeze, dude, calm down.” The guy laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t remember me. I’m Tyler Seguin. We went to the same athletic training conference in, like, shit, 2010?” He scratches his chin, angling his head in a way that Sid assumes he thinks is charming and beguiling. He just seems like the kind of person who lives every day like someone’s about to take a photo of him. “You were with the Bulldogs, back then. You were part of a panel about consistency in ACL treatment and protocol. I’d just started my degree and I think I asked you every question under the sun to try and get an edge.”

He smiles again. Carey still seems wound up, in Sid’s opinion, but the edge is gone now.

“I remember the conference.” Carey says diplomatically. Sid kind of huffs a laugh, and they both look at him. He shuts up.

Tyler goes through a whole face journey as he realises who Sid is, but he smooths his face back into a normal smile when it’s done, which Sid at least appreciates.

“I look a bit different now, eh?” Tyler says, elbowing Sid as if he had any idea how Tyler looked 7 years ago. “Not so fresh faced and stupid.”

“The second part is debatable.” Carey’s voice is still perfectly flat, but it’s clearly meant to be a joke, so Tyler laughs.

“Fair.” Tyler nudges Sid again, as if Sid was doing anything in this conversation that didn’t involve waiting for his order. “Though that didn’t stop the Stars from hiring me. Maybe they just like stupid hunks, eh?”

Sid doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

“If you work for the Stars, why are you in Nashville?” Sid asks, at a loss for anything else. Up to this point he’d assumed the guy was a Preds fan. Tyler laughs again and looks at Carey.

“Are your players this humble too or what?” Tyler grins. One of Carey’s eyebrows kicks up by a fraction. “It’s the Playoffs, Sid, and my team got knocked out before it started. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Oh.” Is all Sid says, because his PR training did not prepare him for Tyler Seguin.

“It’s okay.” Tyler leans over the counter to Carey, body still angled out so Sid can see how his shirt pulls across his chest when he moves. Sid’s not sure if this is ill-advised flirting, or if Tyler genuinely lives like this. “Don’t worry, I’m totally impartial. No biases here.”

“Right.” Carey deadpans. He seems to have finally gotten over whatever it was about Tyler’s question that shook him so much. “Can I finish serving Sidney, now?”

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Tyler says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry, and he steps away just enough to let Carey pass Sid his whale cookie and coffee mug, which Sid takes gratefully. “Are you eating in, Sid?”

“Um, yes?”

“Awesome.” Tyler leans over to Carey again, crowding into Sid’s space. “Put my order on his table number, yeah?”

“We don’t have numbers.” Carey says, bland in a way that sounds exasperated. “Because I serve you here.”

“My point stands.” He winks at Sid, who just. He just wanted a cookie, alright? He didn’t sign up for this. “Go grab a table, I’ll be three minutes, max.”

Carey looks like he wants to say that Tyler’s order will be done as soon as he says it is, but he lets it slide.

Sid, at a loss for anything else to really do, finds a table for two and waits. He’s very confused. However, this does mean he finally gets to eat his cookie.

It’s a really, _really_ good cookie.

Like, he’s maybe glad this place doesn’t exist in Pittsburgh, because if it did then not even God or Sully or Andy O’Brien would be able to stop him inhaling these things daily, diet plan be damned.

He’s just contemplating grabbing another, coffee mostly forgotten, when Tyler dramatically flops into the chair across from him whilst somehow managing to not spill a drop of his coffee or totter the massive pile of cookies and muffins he has stacked on a plate.

Sid stares at him.

“I know, I know.” Tyler grins, all teeth. “You don’t have to worry about my figure, Sid, I bought some of these to share.”

“Really?” Sid blinks. Tyler just drops another cookie onto Sid’s crumb covered plate. “Oh, well, thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Tyler winks again, honest to god, and Sid just. How did he end up here?

“Trying to put me off my game?” Sid asks, half to joke and half because if he’s talking it means he won’t embarrassingly inhale another cookie in front of this weird, hot man.

“You caught me!” Tyler holds his hands up, fake innocent. “Absolutely red handed, bud.”

“I’ve played through worse than a sugar crash.” Sid smiles, sipping his (very good, thanks Carey) coffee.

“Oh, I know.” Tyler puts his hands down, and for a moment the smirk drops away and he looks… Concerned. “At the risk of a double entendre, how’s your head?”

And, look, Sid would’ve taken that comment at face value and not pointed out the joke, but Tyler was, apparently, incapable of not coming off as a flirt even when he was being serious. Or, at least, that’s the vibe he was giving Sid. But it’s also…

Sid doesn’t like talking about it, is the thing. No matter how you interpret that comment, Sid’s trained himself to put his guard up.

“It’s fine, actually.” Sid says. And it is fine, because it’s the Playoffs, and in the Playoffs the headache that sits at the base of his skull doesn’t matter. The fact that days bleed together is more a symptom of the Playoffs than of his head, he knows that for sure. He’s not the kind of person to be an idiot about this, but he’s not willing to discuss how close he is to toeing the line right now, especially to a guy he’s only just met.

“Four days isn’t long.” Tyler say diplomatically.

“Again, I’ve played through worse.”

“Hmm.” Is all Tyler says, and when Sid only sips his coffee in response he sighs. “Sorry, sorry. That was out of line. I’m not your trainer, I shouldn’t be making comments. Just, you know.” Tyler shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking up, and he taps his temple. “Can’t switch this thing off, can you?”

“No, you can’t.” Sid agrees.

“Sorry, again.” Tyler says. “I’ll stop talking about hockey, if you want? Not to be genuine or whatever, but I really wanted to just talk to you as a person, not as a player and a trainer.”

Sid mulls that over for a moment.

“Does that mean you’re not going to rat me out for eating all of this?” Is what he ends up saying, because for all that he’s only just met Tyler, he believes him when he says this is ‘genuine or whatever’.

Tyler laughs properly. From the counter, Carey raises a disdainful eyebrow at him.

“Would never dream of it.” Tyler shoves a muffin onto Sid’s plate along with the whale cookie. “Besides, if you get scratched from Game 3 because of a muffin, I think the mayor of Pittsburgh himself would intervene. Maybe the Prime Minister, if he felt so inclined. I’d never forgive myself.”

“I thought you were impartial?” Sid decides to risk taking a bite of the new cookie and hopes his will power is strong enough that he doesn’t embarrass himself by trying to eat the whole thing at once. He still takes a pretty substantial bite, all things considered.

“Well,” Tyler makes a show of looking Sid up and down before dropping his voice low. “I’m sure I could be swayed. Especially by you.”

Sid chokes on his cookie.

“Sorry.” Tyler says when Sid regains composure. He doesn’t look at all sorry. “That was a bit much, eh?”

“Maybe a bit.” Sid agrees before cramming the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

“Sorry.” Tyler says again. “I’ve been told my brain to mouth filter isn’t great. I promise I don’t say stuff like this at work.”

Sid’s about to say something funny so Tyler knows he’s not annoyed, except right as he’s about to he looks up and sees Rich Clune coming out of the back room.

“Shit.” Is what he says instead, ducking behind the pile of muffins and pulling his hat as low as humanly possible. This whole morning is going wildly off the rails. “Shit shit shit.”

“What?” Tyler’s brow furrows. He looks at where Sid’s casting furtive glances. “Oh, hey, is that Cluner?”

Sid knew members of the Preds knew about this place. Roman was the one who told him about it. He knew it wasn’t a secret. However, there’s also a reason he chose to go to a tiny boutique café alone at 10am in the middle of a Cup run.

(He knows Rich is a good guy. But there’s a voice in the back of Sid’s head that sounds like a Pittsburgh beat reporter that calls him a wash every time he eats a cheesestick and a matching voice that sounds like Sully yelling about being around an opposing team member, so, sue him, he’s a bit stressed.)

“Fuck.” Sid whispers. “I don’t want him to see me.”

“Bad luck?” Tyler asks, a corner of his mouth quirked up, and Sid really wishes he weren’t riddled with neuroses so he could appreciate how even that small smile makes Tyler’s face light up. Tyler looks at him for a moment, properly looks at him, and something passes over his face. “When I get up, swap seats with me.”

“What?”

“Swap seats.” Tyler explains, like it’s obvious. “So when he leaves he won’t see your face.”

And then Tyler gets up and starts walking to the counter, where Rich is good-naturedly giving Carey shit. Sid blinks stupidly for a moment before scrambling into Tyler’s chair as gracefully as possible. He pulls his hat down even lower and slouches as much as he can in the chair.

If he angles himself correctly, he can watch their interaction in the reflection of the window. So, you know. He’s not doing anything else with his time.

“Hey!” Tyler beams as he goes up to the counter. Rich looks surprised. Carey raises an eyebrow. “I’m so sorry to make this weird, but you’re Rich Clune, right?”

Rich blinks at him before a smile spreads across his face.

“I certainly am.” Rich walks out from behind the counter. Tyler seems momentarily taken aback by Rich’s sheer _mass_ , which Sid feels totally normal about because he’s only known Tyler for 25 minutes and isn’t allowed to have any kind of opinion about what Tyler thinks of Rich’s shoulders. “Are you a fan?”

“Kind of.” Tyler shrugs, beaming. “I work for the Stars.”

“Not here to recruit me, are you?” Rich shoves Tyler playfully in the shoulder.

“We wish.” Tyler laughs. “I don’t think the Preds would let me.”

“Well I hope not.” Rich leans against the counter. His shirt is very tight. “Are you here for the final?”

“Of course.” Tyler shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, standing at the perfect model angle, and Sid is again convinced that Tyler does this on purpose. “What self-respecting hockey fan isn’t?”

“Here for us?” Rich asks.

Sid sees Carey make direct eye contact with him in the reflection and Sid panics and makes eye contact with the muffin on his plate, which means he barely hears Tyler say “Unless I get swayed.”

“Look,” Tyler continues, sounding bashful. “I know this is weird, but could I get a selfie?”

“Of course.” Rich laughs. There’s a few beats of silence as they take the photo and when Sid risks a glance back up to the reflection he sees that they’re both smiling, throwing up peace signs. It’s a little bit endearing. “Don’t forget to tag me. And this place.”

“Free advertising?” Tyler asks, shooting a sly glance at Carey.

“Well, my boyfriend owns this place, so, yeah.” Rich laughs. “Anything for him, right?”

Sid stops breathing for a second.

The thing is: news of non-straight players tended to spread wide but it didn’t spread up. Coaches and management, if they cared at all, only cared about their own players. However, most non-straight players definitely knew which teams handled it better than others. Players weren’t necessarily spreading it around, but if they wanted people to know, then they knew. So yes, Sid knew about Rich, in the same vague way he knew about other players across the league.

Here’s the other thing: absolutely no one knows about Sid outside of a select few players on his team. Not even management.

Management knew about other queer players, like Muzz and Dales, because they had wanted management to know. 5 people knew about Sid, because they were the only ones he had wanted to know. He wonders, sometimes, what will happen if those players ever get traded, but the thought isn’t worth the anxiety it causes deep in his gut.

So Rich saying “my boyfriend” so casually, to a guy he’s never met before who he knows works in hockey, it makes something in Sid feel…

He feels…

Well, _warm_ isn’t the right word, but it’s close, maybe.

He’s snapped out of his revere by Rich yelling “Keep it up Pricey!” and then the sound of the door shutting.

Tyler sets a fresh cup of coffee in front of Sid and takes the other seat.

“Go ahead.” Tyler smiles. “You can say it. I’m a fantastic distraction.”

“Thanks.” Sid says. Now that he’s not panicking, he can admit that Tyler really went above and beyond for a guy he’d just met. “You didn’t have to.”

Tyler just shrugs, smiling, and takes a bite out of his muffin.

Sid loses track of time talking to Tyler, who manages to steer the conversation almost entirely away from hockey while still keeping Sid involved, a feat which even Sid had previously thought was impossible. Tyler’s animated and boisterous; when he laughs it seems to consume his whole body, even though Sid knows his contributions aren’t funny enough to warrant that kind of laughter.

He makes it look so easy. He talks about his dogs and beams excitedly when Sid shows him photos of Sam in return; about his house in Dallas and the way the heat hits different than it does in Nashville. About Ontario and his time studying in Boston and the way his mom reacted when he got his first tattoo at 16. And along the way he gets Sid to talk about his own brief stint in college, and how much he misses living on the water, and how he’s never wanted a tattoo but he’d get one, maybe, if it felt right. About all the ways Sid is _Sid_ and not _Sidney Crosby_.

It feels good talking to Tyler. Natural. Their conversation is only punctuated by the comings and goings of employees (including the owner, who introduces himself as James and proceeds to pretend not to know who Sid is out of politeness and ends up putting his foot in his mouth for several minutes before Carey takes pity on him and tells him to get back to his job. Carey’s even almost smiling) and the purchasing of more coffee and pastries.

The fact that Tyler keeps flirting, as if it never crossed his mind not to, is just, well…

Sid’s allowed to enjoy the attention, is all he’s saying.

Eventually reality sets back in when Tyler checks his watch.

“Oh shit.” He sighs, flopping back in his chair. “I need to get back to the hotel for dinner.”

“Oh.” Sid blinks. “Yeah. I should get back to the team.”

“Sorry to love you and leave you.” Tyler grins again, downing the rest of his now cold coffee. He starts standing and something in Sid’s brain panics.

“Do you have tickets to the game tomorrow?” Sid blurts out. Tyler blinks, surprised by the topic change, and he sits back down.

“Sort of.” Tyler says eventually. “They do rush tickets on any leftovers a couple of hours before the game. I was gunna try my luck; if not I brought a camp chair for the outdoor screen.”

“You came all this way for luck of the draw?”

“I like watching hockey.” Tyler shrugs. “I’d rather be in the arena, but I’ll enjoy it regardless of where I am.”

“I can get you a ticket. For both games, if you want.” Sid says, then realises he’s presuming a lot and back tracks. “Or a couple. I mean, if you have friends, or someone with you.”

Slowly, a smile spreads across Tyler’s face.

“I’m afraid I’m all on my lonesome.” Tyler leans forward slightly, head cocked to the side. “In all respects.”

“Right.” Is what Sid says, because he’s smooth. “Well, look, if you want-”

“That would be really great, Sid, thank you.” Tyler interrupts. He’s still smiling, but the flirty edge has softened. “No joke, that’d be fucking sick.”

“Cool.” Sid nods and drinks more coffee. It’s getting cold. “I can’t get you glass seats or anything, but the VIP box has a pretty good view.”

“Jesus.” Tyler laughs. “Yeah, I’m so offended that you can’t get me _glass seats_ and I have to settle for the _measly VIP box_. What a bummer for me.”

“People have preferences.” Sid shrugs and Tyler’s grin turns sly again.

“They sure do.” He says, voice low, and Sid has to try very hard not to choke on his coffee. Tyler’s voice returns to normal. “I’ll give you my number and you can text me the details?”

“That’s a good idea.” Sidney nods and pulls out his phone. In a leap of faith he hands it to Tyler, who raises his eyebrows slightly before he sets about adding his number into Sid’s phone.

“Done.” He says finally, handing the phone back. “I sent a text to myself so I have your number.”

“Fantastic.”

“Also,” Tyler leans forward again, whispering. “You have a snapchat?”

“Oh, that.” Sid shrugs. “I don’t use it a lot. Most people just text.”

“Hmm.” Tyler leans back. “Good thing I added myself, then, so you can communicate like a normal person.”

“You did?” Sid scrambles to open his snapchat app and, sure enough, there’s a new contact there. “You did that fast.”

“I’ve got good hands.” Is how Tyler chooses to respond. He puts his hands up when Sid gives him a look. “Sorry! Sorry, I’ll keep the flirting to a minimum.”

Sid kind of wants to say _“I don’t mind”_ but that isn’t something he wants to fully unpack right now, so instead he just grins and pockets his phone.

Later that night, when Sid’s getting dinner with the rest of the team on the roof of some absolute dive of a sushi place Geno found online, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He ignores it, but it buzzes again. And again. And again.

“Who’s texting you?” Rusty asks from next to him. Sid blinks at him. “I can hear it vibrating, Croz. Someone wants your attention.”

“It’s nothing.” Sid pulls his phone out to check. His notifications are telling him that he has 4 snapchats from SeggyTheCreator which is. God. Okay. “Just a friend.”

Rusty shrugs, already intent on his next piece of sushi. Sid opens his neglected snapchat and clicks on Tyler’s messages.

The first one is just a picture of Tyler’s face, snapback on backwards and a peace sign thrown up, sitting in a non-descript looking hotel room. He looks like he’s trying very hard to be casual. The caption just says, _‘hey, its tyler’_.

The second one is basically the same, but his eyebrows are comically furrowed, with, _‘although I guess you worked that out bc no one else would be messaging you lol’_.

The third is the ceiling of the hotel room and, _‘I didnt mean that as an insult’._

The fourth is a random lamp and, _‘I had a nice time today.’_

Sid can’t help but smile, something endlessly endearing about Tyler’s sudden awkwardness. He takes a sneaky shot of his meal, half eaten and well beyond being aesthetically pleasing, and he captions it with, _‘I had a nice time too’._

Tyler’s reply is almost immediate.

_‘are you at the sushi place on broadway??????’_

_‘yes, you know it?’_

_‘I go every time we play there. Fuck me UP its good’_

Sid’s had better sushi, if he’s being fully honest, but the rooftop bar is nice and he’s a sucker for a view, so he gets a picture of the skyline and types, _‘the view’s good’._

It takes Tyler a minute to reply. Sid’s pretty opposed to having your phone on the table, a preference that often gets him pinned as boring and old, but he’s anxious to know what Tyler has to say, so he leaves it on his leg and waits.

Eventually, he gets a photo of what is, clearly, the view from Tyler’s hotel window. It says, _‘itd look better if you were in it’._

And.

Look.

He’s been flirted with before, often just because of what his name is and who he spends his time with, but it’s rare for it to continue beyond face to face interactions.

Tyler’s snap times out.

Sid’s used to being flirted with. He’s grown out of practice with flirting back. With _wanting_ to flirt back.

He excuses himself from the table and crams his phone in his pocket as he gets up. He winds his way through the restaurant until he finds an area with a window on one side and a mirror on the other. It’s a corridor, so the view out the window isn’t as good as the one on the roof, but he’s trying not to think too hard about what he’s doing and he _definitely_ doesn’t want his teammates seeing him do this. He pulls his phone out.

He struggles a bit getting the angle. He’s not sure what snapchat etiquette is and whether or not his face being fully visible is a vital part of the equation or if he can get away with hiding, a bit, but he ends up with a decent enough photo of himself in the mirror, the Nashville skyline visible behind him. The lights make the photo slightly blurrier than he’d want, normally, but this isn’t exactly a photoshoot.

He captions the photo with _‘Better?’_ , sends it off, and returns to his dinner before anyone gets suspicious.

(When he comes back Flower has apparently just completed some convoluted prank on Jake that involves several soy fish and a projectile chopstick, and Sid has to enter the fray. When he finally has time to check his phone, he’s sees that Tyler’s replied with a message instead of a photo, which just says _‘much better’_.

He also took a screenshot of Sid’s photo.

Sid tries not to smile too hard for the rest of the night.)

During warm-ups he looks up at the VIP box, and while he can’t make out faces in any way he can, if he squints, make out a suited shape that looks like Tyler, talking to a brightly jerseyed shape that looks like Barista-Carey. He can’t parse out why Carey would be there, but the fact that he has confirmation that Tyler made it makes him smile, just a little.

“Who are you looking at?” Dales asks as he slides to a halt next to Sid. He looks up at the box, squinting. “Isn’t Tanger on the other side?”

“He is.” Sid points at where Dales is looking. “I’ve got a friend up there.” He says. Dales snorts.

“You have non-hockey friends?” Dales bumps into Sid playfully.

“Maybe.”

“Alert the presses.” Dales deadpans. Sid pushes him and he glides away easily, smirking the whole time.

When Sid looks back up, he’s pretty sure he can convince himself that Tyler’s watching him.

They lose that game. Spectacularly.

He has a text from Tyler when he gets back to the dressing room that says _“Sorry, had to head back. You’ll get ‘em next time, Sid. Breakfast tomorrow? My treat.”_

They go to Herb’s.

“Is this because it’s the only place in Nashville you know I won’t get chirped?” Sid teases when Tyler rushes to hold the door open for him.

“Rich Clune’s boyfriend owns it, so I can’t guarantee they won’t chirp you, bud.” Tyler smiles. Sid pauses halfway through the door, caught in Tyler’s orbit. “But I can promise that _I_ , personally, will get to eat some really good muffins.”

“Ah, yes, the true meaning of the Stanley Cup.” Sid lets Tyler push him the rest of the way through the door.

(Tyler’s wearing another henly, this one with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off the tattoos on his forearms.

Tanger has tattoos. Geno has tattoos. Many guys on the team have tattoos. Sid has never, once in his life, had a _thing_ about tattoos.

Apparently, he does when those tattoos are on Tyler.

He’s suffering, is what he’s saying.)

Carey is behind the counter again, exactly the same as last time.

“Good morning.” Tyler beams as he walks up. “Did you miss me?”

“It’s been less than 12 hours.” Carey raises a single eyebrow.

“So that _was_ you in the box.” Sid says. Carey looks at him. For a moment, Sid thinks Carey’s going to say something about the game, about Sid or the team or the fact that their best efforts last night didn’t mean shit, but instead Carey just looks at him with mild interest.

“You could tell it was me?” He asks. Sid shrugs and nods at the same time, because he’s good at being Canadian. “Good eyes.” Carey says, and if it’s begrudging, he does a good job of hiding it.

“What’s the story from your old trainer?” Tyler asks. He puts on a fake announcer voice. “He can spot a safety pin in the grass from 20 metres away.”

“That story is greatly exaggerated.” Sid deflects. Tyler smiles, all soft at the edges. Carey keeps… doing whatever he was previously doing with his face, except now it seems exasperated.

“I’m sure your eyesight makes up for the bad breath.” Tyler smirks. Sid groans, long and loud, and is fully prepared to jump into an explanation that PK loves a _bit_ more than he loves the _truth_ but Sid doesn’t _care_ , he _doesn’t_ , but Carey jumps in before he can get started.

“What can I get you?” Carey asks, blunt. He looks at Sid. “Same as the other day?”

“No, uh.” He swallows. A variable has to give, and he can’t change the ice or the arena, so he has to change the fact that he ate a bunch of cookies and muffins the day before. “I’ll just get a flat white and a croissant, thanks.”

Tyler’s looking at him a little funny, but Carey doesn’t seem to care.

“I’ll get a latte and a savoury muffin, thanks.” Tyler says, and that’s the end of conversation while they watch Carey quickly and efficiently make their order. “Do you wanna go find a table?”

“Sure.” Sid nods and wanders off to the corner. It’s the same spot they’d sat in the other day, but while Carey has his back turned Sid moves the chairs around so he can see the hustle and bustle of the street without people being able to see him. He likes the view, so sue him.

“Special delivery.” Tyler plonks their order on the table. Sid blinks down at it.

“What’s that?” He points at his croissant. There’s a toothpick stabbed into the top, a tiny and crudely drawn Penguins flag glued to it. “Did Carey get possessed?”

Tyler, unbelievably, blushes.

“Well,” He pauses, sliding down into a chair. Sid sits as well. He can’t take his eyes off the little flag. “Is it bad if I say I made it yesterday as a boutonniere and I thought, you know, you might appreciate it today?”

There’s something indescribable growing in Sid’s chest, pushing at the inside of his ribs.

“I didn’t have any Pens gear and, you know, it seemed a bit much to buy a jersey just to wear it with a suit, especially since they’re so overpriced at the arena, so, you know?” Tyler’s rambling, face slowly turning red. “And the concierge at the hotel said it was charming, because I had to steal a highlighter off her and she thought it was, like, _sweet_ or whatever, even though she was definitely wearing a Josi pin-”

Sid decides to put him out of his misery.

“Thank you, Tyler.” He smiles. He feels like he’s bursting, a little bit, but he couldn’t tell you why. “Your arts and crafts skills are off the charts, man. Did your teacher at least give you a gold star for it?”

“Oh, come on!” Tyler sits up straight, mock offended, a hand on his chest. “I poured my heart and soul into gluing that flag together!”

“Do you want me to hang it on the fridge, bud?”

“If you don’t like it-” Tyler goes to grab the flag, but Sid shoots his hand out and grabs Tyler’s wrist.

“I never said I didn’t like it.”

“Oh.” Tyler looks a little surprised, the wind knocked a bit out of his joking sails. He doesn’t pull his hand back, and Sid becomes very aware of how warm he is. After a beat he lets go, and Tyler, almost distractedly, wraps his fingers around the skin where Sid touched him. Sid’s not reading into it. “Well. I want it back for tomorrow. I just thought you could use some cheering up today.”

“Yeah.” Sid sips his coffee, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid like hold Tyler’s hand properly or _say_ something stupid like _“It’s only been three days but I think I really like you”_. He’s a grown man. He can keep it together. He _can_. “Thank you, Tyler. It means a lot.”

This time when Owner-James makes an appearance in the middle of their conversation he once again makes a big deal of pretending he has no idea who Sid is, now with the added bonus of pretending that he has absolutely no opinions about the game; it’s so transparent that it’s hilarious. (Sid sees why Rich likes him.) Everyone in the conversation is aware that it’s an elaborate pantomime, but that’s not going to stop any of them. Tyler’s playing along like a champ.

Sid can’t stop looking at the way Tyler lights up when he makes a stupid joke, the way he shoots Sid these sly little glances like James can’t see them, the way his fingers flex around his mug. The light from outside filters through the window and lights the edges of Tyler up in gold. There’s a part of him that, distantly, is absolutely fucking terrified of the fact he can’t stop looking, keeps trying to tell himself that he _shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t_.

James lets out an indignant squawk when Tyler says something about his hair.

Sid smiles around his coffee and lets himself enjoy the moment.

“Who are you texting?” Flower demands at dinner that night. They’re back at the sushi bar, near the end of their meal and there’s just enough of a lull in conversation that multiple people turn to look at them.

“Huh?” Sid looks up. He’d thought he was being subtle.

“Who are you texting?” Flower repeats slowly, a glint in his eye. “Everyone you talk to is here.”

“Don’t be mean.” Jake chimes in, because he’s a rookie and doesn’t fully understand Flower yet.

“It’s fine, Jake.” Sid shoves his phone in his pocket. There’s a part of him that wants to say _“I have other friends”_. There’s another, much larger part of him, that knows Flower can sniff out every single emotional weakness Sid has with uncanny accuracy. “It’s just my parents.”

Everyone else takes that as read and returns to their meals. Flower keeps looking at him, an eyebrow raised. So Sid, as a rational adult, starts cramming sushi in his face and asks Dumo about his fiancée to avoid the issue.

The issue ends up finding him anyway.

Flower corners him in his own damn hotel room, barging in when Sid opens the door to get in and taking over the bed as if he owns the place.

“There’s a curfew, you know?” Sid says weakly, but he knows that’s not going to stop Flower. Flower has inserted himself into all of Sid’s personal issues since 2005, whether Sid wanted him to or not. Nothing as minor as a curfew was going to stop him.

“Really?” Flower replies, breezy, kicking his socked feet where they dangle over the edge of the bed. His hands are tucked behind his head, the absolute picture of contentment. “Fascinating.”

“Flower-”

“You know I want to ask.” Flower says bluntly. Sid deflates.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to answer?”

“Not really, no.” Sid leans back against the wall. Flower looks at him, an eyebrow quirked.

“You know I’d only make fun if it was worth it.” Flower grins.

“Yeah.” Sid sighs. That’s the issue, really. That maybe as soon as someone else looks at all this too closely he’s going to get laughed at. _“Can you believe Sid’s got a crush on the first hot guy to flirt with him by asking about concussion protocol?”_

Flower’s eyebrows furrow, the corner of his mouth turning down.

“Hey.” He says, sitting up. “Sid. C’mon.”

“Flower-”

“Sit down.” Flower pats the spot on the bed next to him, as if it weren’t _Sid’s bed_ , and looks at him expectantly.

Sid sighs.

“You’re not going to drop this, are you?” Sid asks. Flower just shakes his head, smiling. “Fine.”

Sid sits on the bed.

“So,” Flower starts, bumping their shoulders. “Who were you texting at dinner?”

“No one.” Which is, technically, true, because Tyler prefers to Snapchat. “My family messaged me about Game 5.”

This is also true, although Sid was definitely the one to message them first after Flower had called him out.

“Uh-huh.” Flower nods. “Right. Then why are you acting so weird?”

Which, well. Sid’s never been a very good liar.

“It’s…” Sid sighs, closing his eyes for a moment so he can think without Flower’s quizzical face right next to him. He decides, in the end, to say _fuck it_. “There might be. Someone.”

“Really?” To anyone else, Flower’s voice would sound carefully neutral. Sid, however, knows that Flower is fighting to contain an outburst that would wake the entire floor.

“I said ‘might be’.” Sid defends weakly. “I’ve only known him a couple of days.”

“Mmm.” Flower hums, nodding too fast. “Days?” His voice is a little squeaky.

“Yeah.” Sid nods, his fingers knotting together in his lap.

Flower was the second person Sid had ever come out to, right behind his sister; he’d been in the throes of the tail end of his truly abysmal crush on Jack Johnson and had spent so long torturing himself about it that, eventually, Flower had sat him down in his bedroom at Mario’s and talked until Sid had spilled his guts. Since then, Sid’s told Flower about every glancing crush he’s ever had, even the ones that had fizzled out before they’d ever really started. Flower delights in it, loves ribbing Sid’s non-existent love life in a way that makes Sid a part of the joke and not the butt of it.

So, Sid can understand why Flower is maybe a bit shocked that Sid’s gone all googly eyed about a guy he’s only known for a few _days_. He kind of feels the same, if he analyses it for too long.

“Do I know him?” Flower says, careful like Sid will spook.

(He might.)

“I don’t…” Sid has no idea if anyone on the Pens would ever have paid one iota of notice to an Assistant Athletic Trainer on the Stars. He’s not sure he wants to find out. “He’s not on the team. He works for the league.”

“Ah.” Flower nods, leaning back on his palms.

“I mean. Outing him, you know? It’s not-”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Flower nods some more.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Jesus Christ, Sid.” Flower flops dramatically back on the bed, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

“I know!” Sid punches Flower in the thigh. “Shut up, god, I _know_.”

“You don’t do it by halves, do you?” Flower’s laughing now, tiny tremors shaking his body. “Never given out your number once in your life, and you go and pick a _League employee_ in the middle of a _Cup run_!”

“I didn’t choose to!” Sid’s kind of laughing now too. It’s fine, really. Flower’s not going to pry too deep now. He’s got Sid’s back. “He just… found me.”

“That’s _disgusting_.” Flower sounds delighted. “How many dates?”

“Oh, no, we haven’t-” Sid clears his throat awkwardly. Flower uncovers his face and hits Sid with the full force of his disbelieving look. “He doesn’t know.”

“What?” Flower says flatly.

“He doesn’t know that I… like him.” He thinks Tyler has an inkling, he _has_ to, but Sid’s not pinning his hopes on that one. Tyler flirts with most everything that moves. He might not even notice Sid’s clumsy attempts to flirt back. “I haven’t told him.”

Flower sits up and looks at Sid. He’s not stupid enough to ask a question like _‘why not?’_ , because they are both acutely aware of the answer, but he knows that doesn’t stop Flower from being curious.

“Will you?” He asks instead.

Sid just shrugs; a little helplessly, if he’s being honest.

Flower nods.

“You know,” Flower begins, clearly picking his words. “I’ve always wanted you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” Sid says, almost automatically.

“I know you are.” Flower looks at him. He manages to make his gaze piercing and soft at the same time, makes Sid feel like a moth in a jar; he’s safe, but he can’t get out. “But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Sid nods, and if there’s something thick and tender crawling up his chest and into his throat, making his eyes shine, then he knows Flower won’t mention it. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.” Flower nods, final. “I know relationships aren’t everything, but…”

“Yeah. I get what you’re saying.” Sid smiles, and Flower smiles back. Flower’s always been good at getting Sid out of his head and reminding him that he’s human. One with feelings and needs outside of hockey, even. He needs that.

“Good.” Flower says, and then hits Sid across the face with a pillow.

“What?” Sid splutters, shocked, and is only met with Flower’s grinning face and another wack with hotel bedding, so he grabs his own pillow to try and retaliate.

Flower proceeds to spend the next 45 minutes alternating between attacking Sid with a pillow and trying to force him to order outrageous things from room service, just to see if they would do it. Sid’s a giggling, honking mess when Sheary finally bangs on the wall and yells at the two of them to _“shut the fuck up, please, I swear to GOD”_. He’s disgusting and sweaty and still in the clothes he wore to dinner, but he’s happy.

He hits Flower with a pillow one last time and sends him to his room for the night.

(Before he showers, he sends Tyler a photo of his destroyed hair and the abysmal state of his room and captions it _‘Flower’s a fucking menace in a pillow fight’._

He doesn’t think anything of it until he’s in bed and Tyler replies. It’s a similar shot to Sid’s, Tyler’s softly curling hair on a mountain of pillows, although Tyler look far less dishevelled. When he looks at the bottom of the photo, he can see that Tyler’s not wearing a shirt. It says _‘invite me next time, babe’._

Sid absolutely refuses to think about it.)

(The next day, he finds a fistful of heart-shaped confetti in both of his skates, with Flower mysteriously absent from the room. He can’t help but smile, something warm in his chest.)

They lose again.

It’s not crushing, it’s not like the Preds took the series lead, but it still hurts in the deepest part of Sid’s chest, like a caught breath that he can’t let out.

He goes through the motions of his post-game routine. He checks his phone. There’s a Snapchat from Tyler, timestamped before puck drop, of him and Carey and Owner-James up in the VIP box. Tyler’s got his little flag stuck in the lapel of his jacket. James has a bedazzled denim jacket on, mouth half open like Tyler surprised him. Carey’s in a Subban jersey.

He lets the snap time out and just sits in his stall for a minute. There aren’t any new messages from Tyler. He’s trying not to let it get to him, not on top of everything else.

“Hey.” Geno mumbles from in front of Sid. He hadn’t even noticed Geno walk up, but there he is, in his travel sweatpants and a hoodie pulled up high enough that he can hide. “Just need home ice, yes? Then we back on track.”

“Yeah.” Sid nods and tries to smile. They can do this. He extends his fist and Geno bumps it. “Thanks, Geno.”

“Don’t need you looking so mopey.” Geno gives his shin a gentle kick before wandering away.

Sid gives himself one more minute to wallow before he finishes getting changed and leaves the locker room.

Tyler’s there.

He’s leaning against the wall across from the locker room, scrolling through his phone. He looks… tired, maybe, but not in the same way as Sid. Maybe quiet is a better word. Reserved. Holding himself as small as possible in this big hallway.

“Hey.” Sid says, relieved to see him. Tyler looks up and a smile spreads across his face, slow and soft. Sid doesn’t feel better, but he feels…

“Hey.” Tyler replies, pocketing his phone. He pats the wall next to him and Sid barely has to think before he’s walking over. He sets his duffle bag on the ground and leans next to him. Their shoulders are touching. “Beauty of a goal.”

“It wasn’t good enough, though.” Sid shrugs. Tyler shoulder bumps him.

“Let me compliment you, Jesus.” Tyler sighs, half joking and half exasperated.

“Sorry.” And, look, maybe he lets a little more emotion creep into that word than he should, because he’s tired and sore and any relief he feels about Tyler being with him is overshadowed by the loss. Tyler looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Sid has to look away. “Sorry.”

“Hey.” Tyler nudges him again, gentler this time. “Sid, c’mon.”

“I know.” Sid sighs. “I know, I know, I just…” He’s so tired. Their flight back to Pittsburgh leaves in a couple of hours. “I’m so fucking exhausted.” He lets his head drop onto Tyler’s shoulder, eyes closed, and just. Exists. For a moment.

He feels it when Tyler exhales, dropping his head to rest on top of Sid’s. It’s…

It’s nice. It’s really nice.

“I don’t know what to do if we lose.” Sid admits eventually. The words feel so wrong coming off his tongue, but he can’t not say them. He’s been here before, he knows that, but the idea of going this far and, what, flaming out mid-way through the series? He can’t stand it. It’d break his heart.

Tyler’s quiet for a minute, the only movement the even rise and fall of his shoulders under Sid’s head. Then, hesitantly, so hesitantly, he reaches out and wraps Sid’s hand in his.

“I never got to tell you why I became a trainer,” Tyler says, an edge in his voice that Sid doesn’t recognise, “did I?”

“Tyler-”

“Sid.” Tyler laces their fingers together. “I want to tell you.”

So Sid shuts up, his head still on Tyler’s shoulder, and he waits for him to start.

“I was meant to be a hockey player.” Tyler says quietly, his thumb running over the back of Sid’s hand.

“Yeah?” Sid whispers back, more so Tyler knows he’s listening than anything else.

“All my life.” Tyler says on an exhale. “It’d been my dream since I was a little kid. I was good, too. Not to brag or anything, but everyone said I was going to go top ten. Top three, even, if I’d been able to. But I was, frankly, incredibly fucking stupid.”

Tyler exhales a laugh, but it doesn’t sound very funny.

“I always thought I was invincible, you know? I was sixteen and I was _good_ , and nothing could touch me.” He continues; he’s so, so quiet. “I wanted to be the best, and a part of me thought that meant being the loudest, and the wildest, and all the shit that went with it. I went hard, fast, and none of it mattered because I was getting scouted anyway. Who cares about the parties and the shitty things I said and did in the name of being the most liked guy in the room?”

He takes a deep breath, his hand shaking slightly in Sid’s. “And then a player took me out knee first in the middle of a game. And I had to quit.” His right leg shifts, almost subconsciously, a phantom of past pain. “And that was the hardest thing to reconcile, you know? That it wasn’t even my own stupid fault that it’d happened. I was just some unlucky kid who took a bad hit.

“I kept thinking it was karma, you know, for being a dickhead for so long. I spent a really long time trying to forgive myself for that.” He swallows, throat clicking. “I’m still trying, in a lot of ways. But it’s better.

“Eventually my mom kicked my ass into gear about it, told me to turn it into something good. So I found a sports medicine degree, because I was spiteful and my sisters thought it was funny, and I decided to be something good.” He shrugs a little and it jostles Sid’s head. “Met Carey at a conference, did my degree, managed to land a job with the Stars through sheer dumb luck. And I’m good at my job, Sid, I’m really fucking good at it, and I love doing it. I had to realise that the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘maybes’ didn’t matter because I couldn’t change what had happened. I just had to keep moving forward, even if it was exhausting.” Tyler’s head turns slightly, and Sid knows that if they were face to face he’d be looking in Sid’s eyes. “But you would get that, wouldn’t you?”

Sid thinks of the pulsing at the base of his skull, of the days and weeks and months spent in dark rooms, unable to even look at a screen, thinking he’d never be able to go back. He thinks, almost hysterically, of his dinky little history degree, that he did so he could say his whole life wasn’t just about hockey.

“Yeah.” He says, rusty. “I would.”

“Then you know that this moment right now doesn’t matter.” Tyler squeezes Sid’s hand. “What matters is that you turn it into something good.”

Sid’s silent.

Tyler’s just given him something small and fragile and monumental all at once, a glimpse into the part of him that’s been glued back together piece by piece. He doesn’t know what to do with something so important.

Except, maybe, show his cracks as well.

“I thought that hit in Round 2 was it.” He whispers. “When I hit the ice I… I was scared.”

He’d actually spoken to Ovi once, while they were both incredibly and wretchedly drunk at a party of Geno’s, about how every year the Playoff slog hurt more and more and more, that he wasn’t sure when his body was finally going to give up on him. Ovi had joked that at least Sid had something to show for the disaster he was turning his body into, but it wasn’t mean. It was the truth.

People don’t have sympathy when you’ve won the Cup. He doesn’t want them to have sympathy. He just wants to be.

Tyler’s hand tightens around Sid’s.

“But you’re here.” Tyler says, confident.

“I just want it to be done.” Sid sighs. It’s a bit selfish, maybe, how he wants to skip to the part where he wins so he can take a breath, but it’s still the truth.

“And I wanted to be a top Draft pick.” Tyler says back. “We make it work. We make it something.”

They let the moment sit between them, in this quiet corridor outside of an empty room, and Sid allows himself to breathe in every detail he can, storing it away. It’s _important_ , and he wants to remember it when he finally steps out of the eye of the storm and into the real world.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He knows it’s their team, telling him it’s last call for the bus.

He exhales.

“I have to go.” He sighs. Neither of them make to move. “I have a plane to catch.”

“Jetsetter.” Tyler mumbles into Sid’s hair.

“You’re not coming to Game 5, are you?” Sid asks quietly. Tyler sighs, a soft exhale that ruffles Sid’s hair, and Sid knows the answer. “I’d fly you there.”

“I know you would.” He feels Tyler smile a little. “But it’s not about how I feel, Sid, it’s about logistics.” He finally stands up straight again. Sid tries not to feel bereft. “I know it’s a shocker, but I’d need more notice if I was going to get on a plane tonight.”

“I know.” Sid looks down at their still connected hands. He can’t make himself let go.

Tyler taps his chin so he looks back up, a soft glint in his eyes. God, they’re so blue.

“But I’ll watch and cheer loud enough that you’ll hear me anyway. And I’ll be here for Game 6.”

“Yeah?”

“Even if you can’t get me glass seats.” Tyler grins, his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners, and Sid has never felt like this about anyone before. For one outrageous, beautiful second, he thinks _I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life._

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

He just stands there, in his travel clothes with his duffel bag, holding Tyler’s hand in the quiet.

“I really should go.” Sid sighs, a small eternity later, and he finally let’s go of Tyler’s hand. He reaches down for his bag.

“Well, maybe this’ll help.” Tyler reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a brown paper bag to hand to Sid. When he looks inside, he sees a Herb’s whale cookie. Tyler’s beaming. “I knew the cookies weren’t bad luck.”

Sid was wrong.

 _This_ is the most he’s ever wanted to kiss someone in his life.

(He still doesn’t.)

He can’t sleep on the plane even though he definitely should. He feels restless and unsettled, crammed into his seat next to a snoring Flower, just staring at the stupid whale cookie.

 _“It’s just a cookie”_ he keeps telling himself, hoping that eventually he’ll believe it, but he can’t. The tiny icing face just keeps smiling beatifically up at him, completely uncaring for his current situation.

Here’s the thing: There’s a chasm of difference between flirting with someone and liking someone and developing feelings for them. Even after talking to Flower, Sid had been clinging to the idea that he was handling this casually, because Tyler’s hot and knows hockey and laughs at Sid’s stupid half-jokes, because it’s _safer_ for it to be another crush that Sid’s just a bit soft about. But now…

Now he’s looking at this stupid cookie Tyler saved for him. Sid had been fully prepared to fly Tyler to Pittsburgh. Tyler had told him his tragic backstory so he’d feel less bad about losing. Sid had taken a fucking _mirror selfie_ in a _sushi bar_ because Tyler wanted to see his face. Jesus _Christ._

And the thing is, Sid hasn’t, he’s never, he just…

Look.

There’s a reason most of his crushes had fizzled out before they’d become anything. They’d had to. It has always felt too vulnerable. _Unsafe_ , if he allows himself to be dramatic about it. Like he was risking something.

Tyler makes him want to risk it.

Eventually he gets sick of losing a staring match against a cookie and puts it back in its paper bag. He pulls out his phone and decides to write a list.

Here are the facts, as Sid currently sees them:

  1. He’s known Tyler for less than a week, all told.
  2. Tyler works for the Dallas Stars as an assistant athletic trainer.
  3. Tyler flirts as easily as breathing. Although, sometimes, if Sid really thinks about it (and, oh boy, is he), he thinks Tyler’s actually putting effort into flirting with him.
  4. He really wants Tyler to keep flirting with him.
  5. Tyler can be a bit of a dick but in a way Sid finds embarrassingly charming.
  6. Tyler’s hands are really soft.
  7. Tyler had come to Nashville for the pure joy of watching the game. He didn’t even have a ticket.
  8. Tyler brought a whale cookie from Herb’s to the game and didn’t eat it because he wanted to give it to Sid.
  9. Sid’s eaten many of those cookies. They’re almost impossible to resist. But Tyler did.
  10. Oh, god.



Sid sits, staring at his phone, and he’s starting to realise that, list or not, he’s in over his head. He can’t get the sound of Tyler’s voice in the quiet of the hallway, whispering _turn it into something good_ , out of his head. He can’t get over the way Tyler was so ready to be vulnerable with him. He knows it means something, which means he has to mean it back.

He decides that when they land he’s going to do the best thing there is to do.

He’s going to call Jamie Benn.

Jamie is, of course, incredibly confused by Sid’s call.

“Tyler?” Jamie asks again. “From the training team?”

“Yes.” Sid says. He’s curled into an armchair after having compulsively cleaned his already spotless living room and he feels restless. “You _do_ know him, right?”

“Yeah!” Jamie’s voice is melodic, sweeping up in excitement like a kid. “How do you know him?”

“I met him in Nashville.” Sid admits.

“Huh.” Jamie says. “That explains a lot.”

“It does? How?”

“Tyler said he’s been having a good time in Nashville.” Sid can imagine Jamie shrugging.

“Right.” Sid rubs a hand over his face. “You talk to him?”

“Oh yeah!” Jamie beams. “All the time. He’s a really great guy, total rocket. He used to play, you know; Have you seen him skate?”

“I haven’t had the chance.” Sid lets himself imagine it, briefly, and then has to cover his whole face with his free hand. “So, he just said he’s been having a good time? Nothing else?”

“He said he met someone.” Jamie throws out there, as if that’s not what Sid’s been fishing for. “Honestly, up until you said it was you, I thought he meant it romantically.”

There’s a pause.

“What if he was?” Sid’s really glad Jamie can’t see his face.

“What?”

“Meaning it romantically.” This was a terrible idea. Sid should never have called. “Because I think he does.”

“Oh.” Jamie exhales. “Do… Do you want me to talk to him? Get him to lay off?”

“…No.” Sid can feel his heart pounding.

Jamie pauses, and when he speaks again he sounds hesitant, as if he’s suddenly become aware that Sid is calling for a purpose.

“Do you, um, _want_ him to feel that way about you?” Jamie asks. “Is that how _you_ feel?”

“I… Yes.” God, he hates this. “Yes, I really, really do.”

“Jeeze.” There’s a loud rustling on the other end of the line, like Jamie’s just carelessly flopped down into a seat. “Okay.”

“Sorry to spring that on you.” Sid presses the palm of his hand into his eye until he sees stars. It aggravates his constant headache, but it helps him think a little clearer.

“No, no, that’s, uh…” Jamie lets out a breath that runs like static down the line. “Congratulations?”

Sid can’t help it, he laughs.

“Thank you, Jamie.” He manages to get out through honking giggles. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, you know.” Jamie still sounds a little stunned, but he’s laughing a bit, too. “Gotta be supportive.”

“You’re a credit to your You Can Play rep.”

“And you make Tyler happy, so.”

And that shuts Sid right up.

“He said that?” Sid asks and, God, did he really need to sound that hopeful about it?

“Well, yeah?” Jamie manages to sound both confused and like Sid is the one being an idiot. It’s a true art. “Why do you think he was telling me about it?”

“Oh.” Sid’s not sure why this is hitting him so hard, but he feels like something’s shifting in his chest. “I didn’t realise.”

“Sidney.” Jamie sighs. “I’ve known Tyler ever since he came to Dallas. I’ve never heard him this happy about someone. Ever.”

“Oh.” Sid can’t seem to find any real words.

“Do you feel the same?”

Sid looks around his spotless living room, and he thinks of all the empty rooms and blank spaces he never bothered to fill.

“Yeah.” He admits. “Yeah, I do, and it’s fucking terrifying, Jamie.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, befuddled.

“Because I…” Sid thinks back on his list, and it all feels so trivial, somehow, even though he knows it’s not. “I met him less than a week ago. I barely know him.”

“But he makes you happy.” Jamie says, as if it’s that simple. “And you make him happy.”

“Now.” He says. He’s been thinking about it since the night before, about how Tyler rebuilt himself while Sid’s spent years trying to stay the same. “What if he gets sick of me? He works in the Western conference, so we’d see each other, what, twice a season and the bye week if we’re lucky? What if he got _bored_? What if he didn’t want to deal with _me_ when there’s all these hot young available guys and-”

“Sid.” Jamie cuts in, tone firm enough that it forces Sid to shut up. “You can’t think that little of him.”

“Sorry.” Sid sighs and huddles into his chair a bit more. “I don’t. I really don’t. I just…”

“What’s really the problem, Sid?” Jamie asks, gentle again. “Why did you call me?”

Sid takes a deep breath and focuses, really focuses, and admits it.

“I think I could fall in love with him, if he let me.” He says, quiet, and he feels so fucking vulnerable that it almost hurts. “And if he didn’t then I think it would destroy me.”

It all cracks open in front of him, this writhing mass that he was skirting around with his list and this call and the whale cookie; he’s never imagined being able to fall in love with someone until hockey was over. It wasn’t even on his radar. And that was fine, that was the plan, but now Tyler has wandered into his life like a reckoning and he can’t imagine going back to the way it was before.

“He’s changed something in me, Jamie.” Sid continues. “He’s changed everything.”

“Wow.” Jamie breathes.

“Yeah.”

“Sid…” Jamie takes a deep breath in. “I think you’ll just have to take the leap anyway.”

“But what if-”

“Tyler’s an adult, so are you.” Jamie’s melodic voice makes it sound so simple, so much so that Sid’s almost starting to believe him. “You both deserve a chance at it.”

“Look at you, so full of wisdom.” Sid chirps, because otherwise he thinks he’ll cry.

“I like seeing people happy.” He can hear Jamie’s smile. “When do you see him next?”

“Game 6.” The hopeful end of the run. “Maybe the day before.”

“Well then plan a grand gesture.” Jamie perks right up, chipper as anything, and Sid laughs. “Seriously! Do something to make him realise what he means to you.”

“When do I have the time?” Sid’s trying to imagine it, using the Game 5 intermissions to order flowers or a giant teddy bear. It’s comical. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Well then,” And he can really hear Jamie smiling now, and this, at the end of the day, is why he called Jamie instead of anyone else. “Win him a hockey game.”

So Sid does.

(Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it does feel good to leave Game 5 with a shutout, screaming and cheering in the dressing room. He just played some of the best hockey of his _life_ , and he feels so fucking giddy with it that he barely even waits to get on the bus before he snapchats Tyler a photo of his beaming, exhausted face, and sends it without a caption.

Tyler screenshots it and sends back a video of a booing Nashville crowd in a bar, his Pens flag shoved into the top of his beer bottle.

Sid can’t stop smiling.)

“He make you happy,” Geno says, apropos of absolutely nothing, while he and Sid lean against the boards at the end of morning skate. “Yes?”

“Who?” Sid asks. He’s out of breath and sweating, potentially pushing himself too hard, but he never got anywhere without a bit of push.

Geno looks at him like he’s stupid.

“Man from other night.” Geno huffs. “Or you hold hands with anyone, now?”

Sid freezes.

“Um.” He says, his brain running into overdrive while Geno just looks at him with his big sloth eyes. “You saw that?”

Here’s the thing: Geno knows Sid isn’t straight. And has known for years. But Sid is also very aware of the fact that, for a lot of people, having a gay friend in theory is dramatically different to having a gay friend in practice, and he and Geno have never even talked about the _theory_ portion. It’s just a silent fact of their friendship, and now here Geno is, bringing it to light right there on the ice. Sid’s heart has never beat faster.

“Forget phone, walk past.” Geno shrugs, as if he isn’t ruining Sid’s life. “You both distracted, so I don’t pry. But, am curious.”

“Curious.” Sid repeats. 10 seconds of this conversation has him sweating bullets harder and faster than the two-hour practice Sully put them through could ever.

“Wonder how you meet.” Geno continues, voice perfectly even. “Wonder why you not tell me?”

“I.” Sid feels choked up. God, why did Geno have to do this here? “Are you angry?”

Geno’s brow furrows.

“Angry?” Geno pushes off from the boards and glides around so he’s facing Sid properly. “Why angry?”

“I don’t know.” Sid starts picking at the tape on his stick. “Because I didn’t tell you? Because he’s a _guy_? Any number of reasons, G.”

Geno just blinks at him again.

“I’m knowing about you liking men.” Geno says, slowly, as if he thinks Sid’s forgotten. “I not forget.”

“I know, but, um.” Sid really needs to calm down or he’s going to pass out, maybe. “Knowing is different to _seeing_.”

Sid knows that, a few years ago, Geno would’ve taken that the wrong way, would’ve blown up about Sid thinking all Russians were _like that_ because of stereotypes and politics. But they’re both different now, older and surer and so interconnected that sometimes it’s scary, so instead, Geno just sighs and bumps Sid’s shin with his stick.

“You smile at phone now.” Geno says, a small smile tugging up the corner of his own lip. “And hold hands. And sneak away to electronics shop when should be spending time with Geno.”

Against his better judgement, Sid laughs at that.

“I would not have problem anyway, for record.” Geno presses, serious for a split second before dropping back to his casual tone. “But, he make you happy. More than I see in long time.”

“I am. Happier, I mean.” Something still feels vulnerable when he says that, maybe because he hasn’t actually said it to Tyler yet. “I think we could be very happy together.”

Geno nods.

“Good.” He says and starts skating away.

“G!” Sid skates after him and stops him with a hand on the arm. Geno turns around. It’s now or never, really. “His name is Tyler.”

Geno beams at him.

The next time Sid runs into a Predator, he doesn’t have Tyler as a protective buffer.

It’s the morning before Game 6 and Sid’s actually at a non-Herb’s café because he wants to avoid running into Rich, which makes it all the more annoying that he runs into PK.

“Oh.” Is Sid’s first response when he sees PK at the counter. The barista glances up, barely giving Sid the time of day, but it seems like it’s more because she’s busy than because she’s a hockey fan. PK gives him far more attention.

“ _Oh_ yourself, Sid.” PK beams. He strides over and gets Sid in a bro-slapping kind of hug. “How’re you doing, man?”

“Good, good.” Sid nods. “You?”

“Ready to kick your ass tomorrow.” PK says as he pulls back. Sid rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured and PK knows it. “What can I get you?”

“It’s okay, I can-”

“I know you can.” PK pokes Sid’s shoulder. “But I’m going to anyway. You can owe me next time we play in your city.”

They both know that could either be in two days or in 4 months, but it’s fine; they both have long memories.

“Fine.” Sid sighs and rattles off his simple order to PK before shuffling off to find a table.

In all honesty, he’d rather avoid talking to PK for the exact same reasons he’d avoided talking to Rich. However, he knows PK, and he knows that PK isn’t going to just let him wander off without a reason.

(A reason Tyler could’ve provided him, but Sid’s trying not to seem desperate and clingy when he’s on the cusp of declaring that he has feelings. Tyler kind of shifted his whole world view, he needs a couple of days to re-adjust.)

PK sets their food and coffees on the table and lounges back in his seat. PK and Tyler have a similar aura of always seeming camera ready, except PK always looked ready for Vogue and Tyler looked ready for the ESPN body issue.

(Then again, that may be Sid projecting.)

“So,” PK starts, smiling again. His smile is always the single brightest thing in any given room, and Sid feels momentarily blinded. “Not at Herb’s today?”

“How do you-” Sid starts, suddenly and urgently on the defensive, but PK just waves a hand.

“It’s my normal haunt too. The boys mentioned you.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s why I came here, actually. I thought you’d be there.”

“Oh.” Sid slumps back in his chair. He feels awkward now, so he deflects. “You know them well?”

PK’s smile turns introverted, a little joke to himself.

“A bit.” Is all he says.

The image of Carey neutrally glaring in Tyler’s selfie in the VIP box, wearing a Subban jersey, floats through Sid’s mind.

“They seem like good guys.” Sid says instead of anything like that, and sips his coffee. “I want to talk to whoever makes the cookies, because they’re not getting paid enough.”

“Of course you love the cookies.” PK laughs. “Are they swaying you from your sacred diet plan?”

“You know diet plans have never stopped me before.” Sid smiles. “…But yes. I don’t know how you handle having them right there.”

“Ah.” PK waves his hand, a flowing movement. Sid’s never had that much grace off the ice, but PK exudes it. “They know when to cut me off. They’re good to us.”

There it is again, that softness that sits at the corner of PK’s smile. There’s a question burning at the back of Sid’s tongue, because while he’s never heard anything about PK he certainly has _suspected_ , but he knows that’s not the kind of conversation they can really have.

Or, maybe it _was_.

It’s not like anyone’s paying attention to them.

“Rich mentioned his boyfriend owned the place.” Sid says, on an absolute whim. PK stiffens slightly.

“He said that to you?” His eyes are narrowing, suspicious, and Sid immediately realises he’s gone about this the worst way possible.

“He more announced it to the room.” Sid shrugs, trying to remain nonchalant. “Don’t look at me like that, Jesus, who do you think I am?”

“Sorry.” PK huffs a laugh, but the tension doesn’t quite leave his shoulders. “Gotta look out for your boys, right? And I forget, sometimes, you know? Who’s good about it and who’s not.”

“Yeah.” Sid agrees, nodding slowly. And then he makes yet another rash decision. “That’s part of why so few people on my team know.”

PK fully freezes at that.

Sid barely restrains himself from chugging his still burning coffee.

After a beat, PK lets out a long breath.

“That’s a lot to toss in the ring there, Sid.” He says levelly.

Sid just shrugs, still drinking coffee and hoping, desperately, that he hasn’t turned bright red.

“Can I, uh…” For the first time since Sid’s met him, PK looks awkward. “Can I ask?”

“I’m, uh, gay.” Sid hasn’t said it out loud since he told Dales and Cully after the previous Cup (he’d had to wait until he’d gotten over his incredibly tragic crush on Dales, which Flower had found delightful and Sid had found agonising). It feels rusty in his mouth. “I think telling you takes the official list up to seven people.”

“Wow.” PK breathes. “Um. Thank you. For trusting me.”

Sid just shrugs. It’s less that he trusts PK and more that he trusts that PK understands.

“So, yeah.” Sid’s drunk most of his coffee, has the burnt tongue to prove it, so he busies himself by twisting his mug around on its saucer. “I guess hearing Rich be so open about it made me, you know, think. About being more open, maybe. On a small scale.” He shrugs. “And now I know Herb’s is good about it, so. No guilt about those cookies, eh?”

That shocks a laugh out of PK.

“Yeah.” He agrees. There’s a little less grandeur about him and Sid is struck, suddenly, by the idea that PK puts up just as much of a front to the world as he does. “It’s good when you know people have your back, even if you don’t know them.”

“Do they have yours?” Sid asks. PK looks at him. Sid’s not going to force him to say anything, but… “Your face when you talk about them. I wondered.”

And there it is again.

“Yeah.” PK nods, still soft. “Yeah, they’ve got my back.” He takes a deep breath and looks like he’s steeling himself. “Mine and Carey’s.”

“Good.” Sid says. He sips more of his coffee. “You’re really dating SCarey?”

“Hey!” PK laughs again, but this time it lifts the air around them until it feels… normal, again. “He only scares the rookies.”

“I deeply doubt that.”

“…Okay.” PK smiles, and it’s so, so bright. “Yeah, you’re right.” He leans forward, conspiratorial. “He used to be a goalie.”

“Oh, god.” Sid says, everything suddenly snapping into place. “That explains everything.”

“That’s part of why I love him.” PK smiles.

Sid hopes he gets to be that happy in love one day.

(He almost terrified to think that one day could be soon.)

The problem with Tyler, really, is that Sid trusts him. Trusts him in the stupid, headstrong way he’s never felt outside of his teammates. And it’s almost impossible to explain _why_ , but-

But.

But when Tyler looks at him, it feels like he can finally exhale. Like he’s been running drills this whole time and someone’s finally told him to stop, take a break, you don’t need to do another lap, bud.

Tyler makes him feel like he’s young and stupid and wide-eyed again. Like he’s only special because Tyler wants him to be, not because anyone else said so. And he thinks, he _hopes_ , that the easy way Tyler is around him means he maybe does the same for Tyler. He hopes Jamie wasn’t lying, that he’s doing something right.

 _‘sorry I can’t see you tonight’_ Tyler has snapped him, with a picture of Tyler’s comically frowning face.

 _‘Whatever will I do without you?’_ Sid replies, mimicking his frown.

 _‘you know I’m your good luck charm ;P’_ Tyler replies.

 _‘Probably.’_ Sid replies before he can really think about it.

Tyler’s reply is a video of him laughing, captioned _‘flattery gets you EVERYWHERE, babe’_ ; he’s lit only by his phone flash and the lamp light in his hotel room, in a grey hoodie and a backwards Stars snapback. It shouldn’t be flattering, but Sid’s heart leaps in his chest.

God.

He’s so fucked.

The morning of Game 6, Sid has a frantic sort of energy buzzing under his skin, an inability to stop drumming his fingers against his leg, and a text from Tyler that reads _“see you tonight, good luck x”_.

From opposite ends of the room, both Flower and Geno throw balls of tape at him, so precise that Sid is pretty sure they planned it. He tries to retaliate, but ends up hitting Phil as he walks past. Phil’s glare could melt ice, and Sid apologises quietly while both of the actual perpetrators lose their minds in their respective corners.

When the seconds tick down and the final buzzer sounds he feels…

He feels…

 _Fuck_.

Euphoria doesn’t cover it. He feels like every molecule of his body is bursting outwards and inwards and towards the roof all at the same time. He feels like a starburst, a firework, a being designed to do nothing but scream and scream and _scream_ with joy while 35 pounds of nickel gets lifted above his head.

(Out there, in the spaces between bodies on the ice, where he can see the endless sea of gold and white and black that makes up the crowd, he thinks that he can see Tyler in the box, arms thrown in the air and flailing. He doesn’t think _“this was for you”_ because it wasn’t, Sid’s self-aware enough to admit that the victory he feels borders on selfish, but he does think _“you made this better”_ and that’s a terrifying enough thought in and of itself.)

Tyler’s standing on the edge of a huge throng of people, half hidden in the press of bodies, bouncing on his toes like he can’t contain his energy. Sid skates over and barrels into him; Tyler manages to hold them both up despite Sid’s skates making them nearly the same height.

“You did it!” Tyler screams, bright and open and pouring out joy. Somewhere, the Cup is going for another lap around the ice. “You fucking did it!”

Sid can’t help but hug him, squeezing Tyler as tight as he can, and they’re both just yelling incomprehensibly into each other ears. Sid’s so fucking happy.

When Tyler pulls back, hands still on Sid’s shoulders like he can’t let go, Sid is struck all over again by how beautiful Tyler is. His hair has escaped whatever style he’d had it in earlier, curling around his forehead and ears; his hands are big where they grip Sid’s shoulders, and he’s so strong and sure and exuding confidence and joy and everything Sid wants to get drunk on right now. His eyes are so, so blue.

“I want to kiss you.” Sid blurts out, with his actual mouth and words, and immediately feels his soul try to exit his body.

Tyler’s eyes go wide. “Oh.” He says, like the air’s been punched out of him. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

He hasn’t let go of Sid.

“Neither was I.” Sid admits weakly. His skin is still buzzing, his heart beating somewhere near the base of his throat, but all he can focus on is the way Tyler searches his face, his lower lip sliding between his teeth. “But I want to.”

Tyler’s grip tightens.

“You…” Tyler looks a little flummoxed. “You. I.” He stops, lips pressed together, but Sid thinks maybe it’s because he’s trying not to smile. “You’re impossible, you know that, right?”

“I’ve heard that, yeah.” Sid nods.

Tyler just keeps looking at him. “Okay.” He finally says, soft, like he can’t help it.

This is, of course, the exact moment that Sid’s family appears.

“SID!” Taylor yells from across the ice, causing both of them to startle. When he looks up, she’s standing with their parents and Cully’s family, flailing her arms around to get his attention. “SID! GET OVER HERE!”

“I think that’s your cue to leave.” Tyler laughs, the corner of his mouth quirked up. Sid can almost _see_ the shards of their moment lying shattered around them. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Tyler goes to step away, but Sid keeps holding on.

“Would you like to meet them?” He asks, and then immediately realises how that sounds. “I mean, I know it’s, you know, and all, but I’d really like it.”

A look of apprehension crosses Tyler’s face. “Sid-”

“You can join us for our photo. With the Cup.” Sid feels like he’s vibrating, almost. Tyler looks winded.

“You want me in the photo?” Tyler asks, very small.

“Yes.” Sid nods. “If that’s okay with you.”

Tyler just nods slowly, like he’s not even really sure he’s doing it.

“Okay.” Tyler says finally. “Okay, yeah, that’s fine with me.”

“Great.” Sid beams.

“Um.” Tyler looks down at where Sid’s holding him, his smile turning sly. “You have to let me go to do that, babe.”

“Oh.” Sid leaps back maybe half a foot and drops his arms. They feel awkward now, swinging uselessly at his sides. “Right, yeah.”

As he turns to start moving Tyler’s hand shoots out and wraps around Sid’s. He looks back at Tyler; he’s blushing.

“I don’t want to slip on the ice.” He grins. They both know Tyler could handle himself just fine on the ice, skates or not, but the small gesture makes Sid’s heart leap.

“No.” Sid laughs again, giddy with this feeling. “We wouldn’t want that at all.”

(Taylor’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates when Sid introduces Tyler, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline and vanishing under her hat. Sid’s parents just think it’s great Sid’s made a new friend, like he’s still 7 and struggling to interact with kids his own age. Tyler is as smooth as anything, charming in all the right ways, and it feels so right to have him here, with Sid’s family, while one of the ice crew takes photos of them all with the Cup on 4 separate phones.

“What?” Taylor whispers while Tyler’s talking to their parents. “ _What?!_ ”

Sid just shrugs.)

They go to a bar for the party, probably the only place in all of Nashville that’s willing to let them open a tab. Sid’s one mission is to get as totally and completely cataclysmic as possible.

(His second goal is to try and kiss Tyler, for real this time, but Tyler is very on board with the idea of getting utterly wasted, so, Sid’s going to start there.)

No one questions who Tyler is, the whole bar packed with players and family and friends and random bystanders who get caught in their energy. The closest anyone gets is Flower, who simply drapes himself across Sid’s back, points across the bar, and yells “Fuck yes, Sid!” in his ear before vanishing back into the crowd. Sid’s not sure if his face is red because he’s blushing or because he’s, just, so fucking drunk, but when Tyler looks back and beams at him, unguarded and happy, Sid doesn’t really care.

(The drunker Tyler gets the more buttons he undoes on his shirt, his jacket long since abandoned. Sid’s losing his mind over it, a little bit.

“Well how do you think I feel?” Tyler bellows back when Sid whisper-shouts about this into his ear over the pounding music. “You’re out here doing a one-man wet shirt contest with the champagne, acting like that’s not a fucking attack on me personally. I’m only human, Sid, let me have this.” And really, right now, Sid would let him have anything, if he asked, but instead of saying that he does another shot.)

Look, Sid’s not saying he had _plans_ for the night.

What he is saying is: he is incredibly fucking wasted right now. Tyler is maybe half as drunk as he is, which is still pretty drunk. And Sid nothing if not goal oriented.

Tyler seems hellbent on getting in the way of those goals, despite being someone who could directly benefit from them, in Sid’s opinion.

“I’m putting you to bed.” Tyler explains, eyebrows furrowed, as he digs through Sid’s pockets to try and find his room key. Sid’s attempting to help by patting Tyler’s hair. He’s doing a great job. “And then I’m going back to my hotel.”

“Okay.” Sid nods, serious. Tyler’s hair is very soft and it curls where he’s tucked it behind his ears. “Counter-offer: You stay here, and I get to spend time with you.”

Sid’s a great negotiator.

“I’m not a sleepover on the first date kind of girl.” Tyler smiles, triumphant, when he finally pulls the key out of Sid’s back pocket. He sets about opening the door, but Sid’s mostly confused.

“You’re not a girl at all?” He says. Tyler laughs at him. Tyler has a really fantastic laugh. Sid’s kind of dumb for it.

“Keen observation, babe.” Tyler guides him through the door and then immediately stops short when he realises that, at some point in the last hour, the Cup has been put in Sid’s room.

Sid’s delighted by the Cup, but he’s used to it just appearing randomly after the win. The Cup keepers are mysterious, and Sid’s drunk enough that he doesn’t question it. He sets about shutting the door and taking off his shoes and finding a shirt that doesn’t smell like alcohol, and by the time he’s done Tyler’s still kind of just… Looking at the Cup.

“It’s a lot, eh?” Sid pokes at Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler nods.

“I mean, I saw it earlier, but, you know, I was _prepared_ …” He blinks really hard and looks at Sid. “I know it doesn’t mean a lot, but I’m so proud of you.”

“It means a lot.” Sid grabs hold of Tyler’s hand and starts playing with his fingers. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

Tyler just looks at him, throat working.

“Me too.” He says eventually, voice thick.

Sid is desperate to kiss him.

So he does.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself, it’s not a very good kiss; however, it is a kiss with Tyler, so it still makes the top 5 of his life-time.

“Oh.” Is what Tyler breathes when Sid pulls back. His eyes are very wide; Sid is suddenly struck to the core with a bolt of uncertainty.

“I’m sor-” Is all Sid gets out before Tyler is kissing him again, both hands cradling Sid’s head. He almost falls over backwards from the momentum, but he catches himself by grabbing onto Tyler’s waist.

This kiss is better.

When they break again, it almost feels like there’s nothing around them at all. Sid could exist forever in this moment, forehead pressed to Tyler’s, eyes barely open, Tyler’s thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the hinge of Sid’s jaw.

“Hey.” Tyler breathes, smiling. “You sure know how to surprise a guy.”

Sid just shrugs.

“I just really like you.” He says, and it feels so vulnerable to admit, but he needs to say it.

Tyler looks a little winded, but he tries to cover it up. “Well, I gathered that.”

“No.” Sid tightens his grip on Tyler’s waist. “I mean it. I really, really like you.”

The way Tyler looks at him then, so soft and open and _tender_ , and says “I like you too.” And it makes something in Sid’s chest squeeze so hard that he can barely stand it, so he just kisses Tyler again.

If Sid died right now, he’d die the happiest man alive.

(He doesn’t manage to convince Tyler to stay the night, but he does manage to convince him to stay until Sid falls asleep. The drunk and stupid part of Sid’s brain intends to stay up all night in an effort to get his way anyway. The part of Sid’s brain that remembers that he’s nearly 30 and just spent 5 hours drinking off the back of a Playoff run knows that means he’s got about half an hour before he’s completely out for the count.

He lasts 32 minutes before he fully passes out with his face mashed into a pillow, Tyler’s arm around his shoulders and their shirts barely halfway off, so, you know, at least his assumption was correct.)

Sid wakes up alone, his head pounding, and a post-it note from Tyler saying that he went back to his hotel is stuck to a glass of water, with a matching text confirming that he got there safely.

Tyler’s flag boutonniere is next to the glass.

He sits on his hotel bed, glass of water in hand, knowing that the media team wants to interview him and that the team will be at ‘breakfast’ soon and that he has to check in with the Cup Keepers so they know he didn’t throw the thing in the pool, and they have to catch a plane soon so they can bring the celebration back to Pittsburgh, but he can’t get up.

He doesn’t know how to say goodbye to Tyler. Or even if he can.

There’s a knock at his door followed by the lilting voice of the camera woman who’s been tasked with following their post-win celebrations (whatever they pay her, it isn’t enough) saying “Sidney, are you up yet?”

“One minute.” He calls out, voice raspy and guttural. He needs to do a lot of things if he’s about to get on camera.

He texts Tyler instead.

_‘Herb’s for lunch?’_

By the time the media team is done, Sid feels remarkably more human; he’s shaved and caffeinated and in a suit that Tanger has often described as “if a parent-teacher conference had a great ass”. The Cup is still in the room for B-roll but the keepers are just off to the side, with their stern faces and white gloves, and Sid wonders, a little bit, why he never noticed that his life was just a series of media-friendly snippets that he kept rudely interrupting with celebrations.

“When does our flight leave, again?” He asks the room at large. The sound girl, who’s been checking her phone for the last 15 minutes since, apparently, _“B-roll gets dubbed over anyway”_ , looks up at him.

“3pm.” She drawls, her native Pittsburgh accent pushing her voice up behind her nose and teeth.

Right. 4 hours.

Sid has a text from Tyler saying that he can be at Herb’s by 1pm.

“I need to talk to someone about catching a different flight.”

The room goes silent.

There’s a different barista behind the counter when Sid gets into Herb’s at 1:15pm. He’s a young guy, college age, with scruff and an expression that turns impossibly sour when he sees Sid walk through the door.

He can admit, Herb’s may not have been the best idea, but then again he’d be stupid not to expect that reception in any building in Nashville right now.

Tyler’s not there.

“Hi.” Sid says, shoving his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’d thrown on before leaving the hotel. The barista just glares more. “Have you seen-”

“No English.” The barista snaps before turning around and aggressively cleaning a mug.

“Oh.” Sid feels awkward and hung-over and anxious. He resists the urge to pull his hood up to hide and looks around instead.

The bunting and decorations have been taken down; Sid can see them spilling out of a cardboard box shoved under one of the tables. The whole building feels quiet, too, as if in mourning. They’re still selling a box of Stanley Cup cookies, but they’re deeply discounted. Sid knows what it’s like to be on the other side, so it’s not like he’s unaware of the emotional energy in the room.

While he stands there, the barista starts muttering in Russian and, look, Sid’s not dumb, okay?

_” Идиот думает, что он может бродить здесь, как будто он владеет этим местом. Иди на хуй, Сидни блядь Кросби. Что он даже-”_

_“ Привет.”_ Sid cuts in. His Russian isn’t very good (Geno would say atrocious), and he doesn’t know half of what the guy’s saying, but he can catch the drift of it well enough. _“ Это не приятно.”_

There’s a beat of silence.

“You speak Russian?” The barista says flatly, switching back to English seamlessly.

“A little bit.” He shrugs. “Enough to know when you’re insulting me.”

“Ugh.” The barista sighs and throws his dishrag in the sink. When he turns Sid catches sight of his name tag. _Kuzya._ “You make it no fun.”

“Blame Geno.” Sid shrugs, and Kuzya’s face turns thunderous.

_“ Этот старый козел может вырастить член на лбу-”_

“Hey, look,” None of this afternoon is going the way Sid planned. “I didn’t mean to come here and upset you. The Preds put up a good fight-”

“Care little about Preds.” Kuzya cuts across. “More for friends than for me. No, I’m mad about what you do to _Capitals_.”

“The Caps?” Sid blinks. Of all the things he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “In Round 2?”

“Should be their year!” Kuzya flaps his hands, just a little bit, like an impassioned bird. Sid’s a bit scared for his health.

This is when, mercifully, Tyler appears.

“Sid.” Tyler greets. He looks anxious. Sid’s heart sinks. Kuzya glares at him mid-flap. “Kuzya, can we have a minute, please?”

Unmercifully, Sid thinks Tyler’s about to break up with him.

Also unmercifully, Kuzya has chosen this moment to be a model employee.

“You can’t boss me around.” Kuzya points at Tyler. “I need stay with register.”

“Kuzya-” Tyler starts, but gets cut off by an emphatic hand wave.

“No no no. You think because you handsome and say nice things when you buy food you can do what you want? Unbelievable.” He crosses his arms, apparently resolute in his decision. “If is private, handle it outside of store.”

“Tyler, maybe we should-” Sid’s already thinking of ways to spin this; perhaps if they have to leave he can run away before Tyler can break his heart in front of an irate Caps fan. However, Kuzya has other ideas.

“Or,” He says, eyes glinting. “Can order drinks. Then, I do not care what you say.”

There’s a moment of tense silence in which Tyler and Kuzya have a staring competition. Sid feels, almost, as if the sky were about to open up and Gordie Howe himself was about to appear from the heavens and say _“you only have yourself to blame for this, kiddo”._

Then, Tyler’s shoulders slump.

“Jesus.” Tyler sighs, dejected, his hands coming up to cover his face. The change is so sudden that Sid almost gets whiplash. Kuzya definitely seems surprised. “This was a mistake.”

“Tyler-” Sid starts, but Tyler cuts him off.

“It’s okay, Sid, I get it.” Tyler’s hands drop to his sides. “You don’t have to let me down easy. I’ll go.”

What?

“What?” Sid says, dumb. He can’t have heard right. Maybe he’s too hungover to hear right. Maybe he really did have a bad concussion in Round 2 and he’s still lying on the ice, living an elaborate fictional life.

“I get it.” Tyler ploughs on. Kuyza opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t seem to find the words. “It was a Cup thing, a rash decision, whatever. You were too drunk and I took advantage. We can pretend this week never happened and move on. It’s all good. Enjoy your Cup cookies.” And with that he goes to leave.

Sid realises he’s been so caught up with his own squirming mass of insecurities that he never stopped to think Tyler might have them as well.

“I would not sell _him_ a _Cup cookie._ ” Kuzya whispers venomously, but Sid ignores him. Instead he darts forward to cut Tyler off.

“Wait!” He jumps in front of Tyler, barely stopping him from getting to the door. Tyler looks down at him, face twisted like he’s hurt.

“Sidney…” Tyler starts, but Sid doesn’t let him continue.

Instead he grabs him by the neck and pulls him into a kiss.

It lasts only a few seconds, with Tyler flailing his arms almost the whole time, and then Sid pulls back and looks at Tyler with as much determination as he can muster.

(It was, once again, not a great kiss, but Sid’s not really intending it to be. He’s making a point, here.)

“Nothing about this week was a rash decision to me.” Sid says, as firm as he can be while still being honest. He’s got one chance, really, to do this right. “Nothing about _you_ is a rash decision to me.”

“Sid.” Tyler exhales, still strained. “Don’t say things you’re going to regret.”

“If you want to leave, then I won’t stop you.” Sid even takes a step away from the door to prove it. “But do it because you want to, not because you think _I_ want you to, because I don’t.”

“Oh.” Is all Tyler says.

“Boooooooooooo!” Kuzya yells from behind them, followed by a loud and distinct “Shh!” from someone else.

Tyler startles and Sid’s head snaps around to look at the counter. Kuzya has his arms crossed and his brow furrowed; next to him is an incredibly tall and incredibly uncomfortable looking man in a flour smudged apron. He looks like he’s trying to hide. It’s not working.

“Sorry.” Tyler says, ducking his head.

“Really?” Kuzya says curtly. The tall man elbows him. “What?”

“I’m Ben, hi.” Says the tall man before rounding on Kuzya and whispering furiously. “It’s rude to boo.”

“He’s Sidney Crosby.” Kuzya throws a hand up in Sid’s direction and makes absolutely no effort to lower his voice. “He’s used to it.”

Sid can’t help it, he laughs at that. Kuzya still looks mad, but the corner of his mouth quirks up, so, that’s something.

“Sorry.” Sid says as well, because he feels like he needs to. “We can leave.”

“No we can’t.” Tyler jumps in. Everyone looks at him. “I want the cookies.”

Kuzya blinks at him.

“I thought you were breaking up.” Kuzya grumps. Ben makes a frantic face at him.

Sid looks at Tyler, who just looks back. “Well, he’s swaying me.”

“Disgusting.” Kuzya deadpans, uncannily like Carey, before turning on his heel and leaving through the kitchen door. “Awful. Absolutely sickening.”

The door swings shut. Ben looks uncomfortable.

“I’m not going to congratulate you.” Ben says eventually, which. Duh.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Sid nods.

From behind the kitchen door there’s a distinctly Kuzya-sounding commotion.

“What-” Ben barely gets to turn around before Owner-James, still in his pyjama’s, is getting shoved through the door. “Oh. Hi boss.”

James, hair a mess and a truly disgruntled look on his face, looks from Ben to Tyler and Sid. He blinks at them slowly.

“I need a coffee.” He says eventually, completely put upon. “For the love of all that is good and holy, please just take your cookies and leave my damn store.”

Outside of Herb’s, box of cookies clutched in Sid’s hands, Tyler breaks into a fit of giggles that leaves him clutching his own knees for support.

“Oh my god.” He wheezes. “You really had to choose this place and ruin that poor guys day?”

“I left a really good Yelp review.” Sid defends. Tyler laughs again, completely helpless to it.

“Holy shit.” He gasps, wiping at his eyes. He looks up at Sid from where he’s hunched over, completely lit up in the sun. “You win one Cup and you forget how normal people act, eh?”

The joyful mood saps out of Sid in a moment. He can’t stop thinking about the way Tyler’s face had twisted when he’d said _“It was a Cup thing.”_

“I’ve won it before.” Sid’s trying to keep his grip on the box of cookies from getting too tight. He has the distinct feeling that destroying a box of Herb’s cookies would be both blasphemous and also not helpful to his argument.

“So humble.” Tyler rolls his eyes.

“I’m saying, I know the difference between a real feeling and a Cup rush.” Sid presses. “I’m nearly 30, Tyler. I’d like to think I’m that self-aware.”

“A hockey player, self-aware?” Tyler jokes, but it’s pretty half-hearted. He stands up before leaning against the wall. “Perish the thought.”

“I just need you to know that.” Sid steps in front of Tyler to try and keep eye contact. “If you want this, I want this. I want to at least _try_.”

“And you won’t get bored of me?” Tyler sighs, bordering on frustrated. Jamie’s voice floats through Sid’s head. He wonders if Jamie knew that this was on Tyler’s mind, too.

“I think it’s more likely you’ll get bored of me.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I don’t take selfies for just anyone.” Sid half smiles. Tyler huffs a laugh but doesn’t continue. “I mean it.”

“I…” Tyler lets his head drop back against the wall. “I don’t know what you want from me, Sid. Every time I make a move, or call you babe, or anything like that, you deflect or stop replying, and then all of a sudden you win the Cup and you want me then? Forgive me for drawing the obvious conclusion.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “And then you were drunk, and-”

“And so were you.” Sid cuts in. Tyler looks at him through the gap in his fingers. Sid’s aware that this is not the main point, is, in fact, running back through every one of their interactions and imagining them from Tyler's perspective and feeling his heart sink, but it’s important. “Everything else we can talk about, but don’t make excuses like that when that’s not the real problem.”

“I just can’t do this if it’s casual.” Tyler isn’t pleading, but Sid thinks he would be, if he weren’t trying so hard to keep it together. “I’ve done that before, the whole fun-time boy thing, and it fucking sucks. I get where you’re coming from, but… You get it, right? You get why I have an issue?”

Sid thinks of an empty hallway and Tyler offering up pieces of his life like Sid deserved them, he thinks of overly awkward selfies, of the way Tyler looked in the sunlight through the Herb’s window, of the Pens flag in the pocket of his pants, of the fucking whale cookie. He thinks of all the clumsy little ways he’d tried to offer something back and never quite managed it, too busy trying to abate his own anxiety.

“Yeah.” Sid nods. “I do.”

“Okay.” Tyler nods, eyes closed. “Good.”

He wants to say something incredibly stupid, like _‘When I won Game 5 I couldn’t stop thinking of you’_ or _‘Flower wants to meet you so he can prove you’re real’_ or even _‘If you let me I’d fall in love with you right here and now’_. Instead he says:

“Which is why I want you to come with me to Pittsburgh.” Sid’s white knuckling the cookie box.

Tyler’s eyes fly open. “What?!”

“Pittsburgh.” Sid repeats. Tyler’s eyes are incredibly wide. Sid manages to release his grip on the box enough to pull the little flag out of his pocket, and Tyler’s eyes focus in on that. “Just for a few days. You don’t have to come. I won’t be mad, I’m not going to make you. But if you do I want to spend time with you properly. I want to prove that this is what I want, because you make me happy and I want to make you happy too.”

Tyler takes the flag off him, eyes unmoving, and Sid’s hand drops back to the box.

“If…” And he has to take a big breath here, because he knows what this means. “If it means anything, I want you with me at the parade. _In_ the parade.”

Tyler seems to stop breathing.

“I can’t come out.” Sid continues, because he needs to be clear. “And if that’s a deal breaker, then I will accept that too. But I want you at the parade, because no matter how long this lasts you deserve to be a part of my celebration and my life, if you want that.” Sid smiles, a little, and hopes he’s allowed to joke. “Besides, Geno and Flower are dying to meet you.”

Tyler still hasn’t moved.

“Tyler?” Sid’s never felt this small before.

Tyler inhales.

Exhales.

Smiles.

Sid could live and die on that smile.

“You know everyone I work with will murder me if they see me there.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s really happy. Sid’s heart is doing somersaults. “Especially in your jersey.”

“Wear whatever jersey you want.” Sid beams. “Wear a Kessel jersey, I don’t care.”

“Only if it’s Amanda’s.” Tyler beams. “Or a Jagr.”

“Jagr?” Sid repeats.

“Stars legend.” Tyler laughs, and the sun is shining, and Sid won the Cup, and he has a whole box of Herb’s cookies, and he hasn’t felt like this in so long that it feels brand new.

And.

Look.

If Sid doesn’t kiss him now he’ll honestly never forgive himself.

So he does, and Tyler kisses back, the box of cookies pressed between them.

…Which again only lasts for about three seconds, because Kuzya bangs on the front door of Herb’s, his angry face pressed against the glass.

“Sorry!” Sid laughs, springing back.

“I’m not!” Tyler laughs, wrapping his arm around Sid’s shoulders.

“Ugh.” Kuzya enunciates clearly before walking away from the door.

“C’mon.” Tyler’s thumb taps against Sid’s shoulder. “We have a flight to organise.”

“Oh, I, uh…” Sid trails off, and if Tyler notices his face going red he’s going to blame it on wearing a hoodie over a dress shirt in Nashville in June. Tyler blinks at him.

“You already sorted it, didn’t you?” Tyler says slowly, but he’s smiling. “When was your flight meant to be, Sid?”

“…I’m meant to already be at the airport.” Sid admits.

“And when are we leaving?”

“6pm.”

“My god.” Tyler laughs. “You really are unbelievable.”

“Well,” Sid turns them around and starts the walk back to his hotel. “I was thinking positively.” He shakes the box in his hands, little iced Cups knocking against each other. “Besides, I’m starting to think the cookies are good luck.”

Tyler looks at him, eyes shining, the corners of his eyes still crinkled in a smile.

“They might be.” He beams. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Sid’s never been more excited to not know what comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> Kuzya, disinfecting the counter for 15 minutes: I cannot believe a PENGUIN had the AUDACITY to BE HERE. This is UNSANITARY.  
> James, exhausted: Will you PLEASE just GIVE ME A COFFEE.
> 
> Thank you for coming on this very silly ride with me. Please let it be known that this whole fic came about because in the OG verse Carey never gets recognised as an AAT, and the idea of Carey and Tyler going to the same conference made me, someone who has organised, presented at, and deeply resented conferences, incredibly happy.
> 
> Please go read the original verse, where all the actual coffee shop shenanigans happen and there is significantly more Kuzya content.
> 
> And finally: Is it really a Sid/Tyler fic if it doesn't mention Snapchat??? All signs point to no


End file.
